


Pliant

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Just kidding with that other tag., Massage, One Shot, Season/Series 02, Smut, massage envy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 10:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11965830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Joan gives Vera a massage: Rather than a lion clamping its jaws down on such a fine gazelle, there's a gentleness to accompany the act. Consider it a reward for good behavior.





	Pliant

Another debriefing lays down the snare for her doe of a deputy. So desperate for positive affirmation, Vera Bennett falls for the trap laid before her. Wine ignites her lithe body; the liquor replacing the passionate blood that flows through her veins.

Already a glass down, Vera feels comfortable in this rather intimate setting.

She brings her knees close to her abdomen, curling into herself as a habit. It feels peculiar being in the lair of the beast. The room, itself, is clinical. Spotless. Immaculate. There's neither a single spec of dirt nor dust to contaminate the furniture.

Between caring for Mum and working a double on the regular, Vera can hardly fathom keeping up so rigorously in maintaining such pristine tidiness. She shakes her head, the wrinkles in her forehead creased.

In the distance, Tchaikovsky solemnly plays. A refined taste for the classics dictates Joan Ferguson's keen taste in music.

Meanwhile, the Devil you know makes her rounds. She lights an array of scented votive candles, as though she prepares for the sacrifice. Vanilla and amber infect the air. The smoke performs a sultry dance, fine wisps fading away into obscurity.

Unbeknownst to the dark presence behind her, she loosens her tie. Sighs from the day's labor. The soft padding of slippers don't give away Governor Ferguson's presence. On the contrary, her stride consists of a fluid grace. With the glass decanter of red in one hand, Joan sets it down on the table as a libation for two women married to the job.

Lingering behind, Joan's gaze flicks down to the very image soft vulnerability now reclined on her sofa. She's allowed a mouse into the lion's den.

"My, my. You're awfully tense, Deputy," she remarks with an amused lilt.

Hands clamp seize hold of Vera's bird-like shoulders: pushing, rubbing, rolling. In shock, she jolts upright, embodying a bird ensnared in a cage.

“It's, um, it's just nerves, you know--”

Unable to articulate herself properly, she stutters. Two glasses of Shiraz - half-empty - lay neglected on the table. Now, Vera wishes she could finish hers for an extra dose of liquid courage. It's difficult to convey herself; she feels too much, falls under the throne of empathy, and the words always refuse to come out. Mum used to admonish her for the fact before she fell too ill.

"Nerves enhance tension, my dear Vera," Joan counters in a polished tone.

How must it feel to express yourself so fluently? So beautifully?

Vera wonders.

She wagers that she'll never know.

Rather than a lion clamping its jaws down on such a fine gazelle, there's a gentleness to accompany the act. Consider it a reward for good behavior.

“Oh,” the mouse answers lamely, her body responding to the firm, albeit ginger touch.

Stroked and patted in the proverbial sense, Vera rolls her shoulders.

"Take off your clothes," Joan commands as though this is a standard strip search.

"I- What? I'm sorry?"

Bewildered, Vera isn't certain she's heard correctly.

“Come, now. There's no need to be shy. You trust me, mm? Allow me to alleviate your... tension, Vera. I've a fine hand for this.”

Again, the little lamb blinks. Nibbling on her bottom lip, she tosses her head back to look up at her maker. The dim lighting in the room seems to bestow her with a halo. Perhaps Vera should have paid more attention in Church as a child; the Devil **isn't** your adversary.

“...If you insist,” she mumbles before slipping off the couch, one foot at a time.

“Tut, tut. Consider this my gift to you.”

Confused, Vera tilts her head. Such elevated jargon isn't for someone as simple as herself. More often than naught, she believes Joan to be on another level.

Piece by piece, the layers fall. Shyly, like some modern rendition of a Baroque Venus, she looks down. Vera swears that there's a faint glimmer of appreciation burning within Joan's charcoal stare.

This act pledges Vera's sworn fealty.

Joan steps forward, plucking the strap of Vera's brassiere and down to the waistband of her lackluster panties.

"Off they come."

Under the scrutiny of such a fiery look, Vera hesitates. Toned arms reach around the back to unfasten her bra. The strap dangles from her thumb. Bland briefs promise to follow. They pool around her ankles. Gradually, she steps out of them. Her body's coated in a blush and Joan wets her lips, playing the role of licentious voyeur.

“Beautiful,” Joan observes.

No further praise is issued.

"Now, I haven't a masseuse table so we must improvise. Lay on your stomach. On the sofa," she clarifies.

Loyalty dictates her actions. She sprawls her petite frame across the leather surface that squeaks once her bare flesh connects.

Joan strikes.

It's a strategic risk to touch Vera so openly without her gloves, without the constraint of clothing. You may as well call it a blessing.

An anointment.

Fingers rove forward, dipping into the hollow indentation of her collarbone.

"Oils procure a great mess; I've no desire to sully my furniture. My touch will suffice," Joan drawls in complete and utter confidence.

Thumbs move in a circular fashion over the curve of such a foolish, fragile spine. How brittle the bones are, how easy they could snap under such magnificent force, but this isn't about destroying Vera. It's about molding her into Joan's image.

She needn't feed Vera what she's truly thinking.

Joan strokes her sides. Plays her like a violin. Feels the indentation of her ribs underneath skin that melts like putty, rippling.

Quite diligently, Joan works those sore, aching muscles. The knots undo themselves through a deliberate touch full of timed precision.

A delicate moan breezes past Vera's lips. She crosses her arms so that her chin rests atop her forearm. Vera Bennett bends to her beck and call, malleable to the grand manipulations that will mold her into a stronger version of herself.

Her forearms orchestrate her clever ministrations. With her deputy blind to her position, Joan's nostrils flare. One brow quirks from intense concentration. She pinches, squeezes, and kneads. The cycle repeats itself. Down the neck and to the back, she works in a clockwise motion. The heels of her palms dig deeper, working skin and muscle alike.

This time, Vera issues a far louder moan that has Joan smirking.

Those fine hands cup her ass, giving a gracious squeeze. The little mouse squeaks though it isn't unprecedented. She _wants_ it; Joan can infer that from the dampness pooled between her legs.

Deft fingers tease her lower lips; how swollen and inviting they look, akin to an orchid begging to be kissed. Joan suspects that Mr. Fletcher, that bumbling buffoon, could never get such a rise out of sweet Vera.

They feel as soft as a petal. Temptation compels her to stroke her wetness – to savor the delicate tissue there.

“O-oh, please... Please, please, please...” Vera mewls.

In response, she arches her back. Hands claw at the arm of the sofa. A throbbing down below replaces the former bubbly feeling. Though her face is covered, she can hear Joan's rich, throaty chuckle.

“Do these muscles require a thorough massage, Vera?”

She needn't the answer; she already knows.

Smugly, her thumb presses into Vera's pulsing clit. The woman beneath her deadly machinations squirms, as though she's on a stake, prepared to be burned alive – and that's what it feels like. Vera writhes, desperate for that tenderly venomous touch.

Breath hitches in her throat. Her hips rock back to meet the slithering pace of those keen fingers.

Long, thick fingers enter her slowly, one at a time. A desperate whimper escapes Miss Bennett, her pert ass on display. Amused by the reaction, Joan savors these _enthusiastic_ responses.

“More?”

Toes curling, Vera attempts to muffle her passionate cry. She bites her lip to the point of chapped no return. With a demure nod, her silken locks obscure her shameful, reddened face.

Gradually, Joan pumps her fingers. In and out, in an out. It's a rhythm that matches the ebb and flow of the tide. For additional stimulation, the heel of her palm grinds into Vera's clit. The pattern follows. Repeats itself. With an increased tempo, Vera's moans reach a crescendo.

“Good girl,” she delivers such fond praise, the mirth in her dark eyes unreadable.

Hips move in a desperate ploy to draw those fingers deeper. Inside of her, they curl – scraping the bundle of nerves that renders her breathless with one final cry. Vera comes undone, milking Joan's fingers for all their worth.

Whimpering, she has the heart to still ask, “W-what about you?”

Joan nearly laughs. A simple “ha” in response would be far too cruel for her kind-hearted deputy. With one final thrust, she withdraws her fingers. Wipes them on Vera's skirt which acts as a makeshift handkerchief. Let her remember the event days later.

"No, you needn't reciprocate,” she coolly states. “I enjoy playing the spectator."

And she does.

The unraveling of Vera Bennett acts as step one of her deconstruction in order to build her anew.

 


End file.
